


Winter's So Cold This Year

by RileyC



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, alien world, holiday romance, justice league - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pluto was discovered on February 18, 1930. It takes the dwarf planet 248.09 Earth years to complete one orbit around the sun. Pluto will complete its first full orbit since its discovery on Monday, March 23, 2178.</p><p>Bruce thinks this describes the status quo re: his relationship with Clark. He believed it's time to do something about that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's So Cold This Year

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Cruise Control."
> 
> More notes at the end.
> 
> Beta'd by BuckinghamAlice.

 

**-I-**

  
  
…Yes, Metropolis, the Christmas spirit is alive and well and thriving  
throughout the year. Embodied in people like Mrs. Morales, Rev. Todd,  
and especially Sally Bowman—age 8 and a half—the light of Christmas  
will never go out.  
  
Bruce smoothed out that morning’s edition of _The Daily Planet_ and reached for the scissors. Each snip precise, he cut out the editorial and picked up a pen to jot down the date, right above the thumbnail photo of Clark.  
  
He lined it up on his desk blotter with another article he’d clipped from the paper. This one had started on the front page, exclusive story and photographs by Jimmy Olsen, additional photos on page five, and concerned Superman’s delivery of toys to Metropolis Children’s Hospital. Olsen had kept the tone of the piece upbeat and most of the pictures supported that. How could you go wrong, after all, with Superman in a Santa hat, surrounded by balloons and smiling children as he handed out presents? Olsen had caught one moment, though, maybe by chance, when Clark’s smile had almost faltered and he couldn’t quite hide the grief that shadowed his eyes.  
  
Bruce looked at that one again and knew that Clark would have masked that pain, the knowledge that too many of those children would never see another Christmas, and redoubled his efforts to make sure _this_ Christmas was the best it could be for them. Bruce didn’t envy him.  
  
He put the clippings away in a desk drawer and took out a small box. Beautifully wrapped by Alfred, after Bruce had made a shambles of it, it was silvery and shiny and tied up in a perfect red bow.  
  
When he was very young, Bruce had half-believed Alfred was secretly a wizard in disguise. The sleight of hand tricks he employed to entertain a bored and fussy five-year-old had seemed to confirm that. Now, of course, he knew Alfred had come by those skills during his days on the stage and yet, watching Alfred wield scissors and Scotch tape to salvage ripped and crinkled paper, Bruce was convinced all over again that Alfred was made of magic.  
  
He could have used a drop of sorcery for the mission ahead of him tonight and could only hope he may have acquired some by osmosis over the years.  
  
“I don’t pay you enough,” he said as Alfred appeared with his overcoat and scarf.  
  
“Indeed not, sir. The weather is clear for your flight to Metropolis,” Alfred said as he helped Bruce on with the coat, “and the car is standing by.”  
  
Bruce nodded, tucked in his scarf, and picked up the box. “You wouldn’t happen to have a crystal ball handy, I suppose?”  
  
“If I did, sir, I would hardly need to gaze into it to foresee a favorable outcome to this evening’s venture.”  
  
Well, Bruce was glad one of them thought so. “You don’t think this is rushing things?” Bruce asked as they stepped out into the hall and he helped Alfred on with his coat.  
  
“Sir, really.” Alfred accepted the hat Bruce held out. “At the rate things have been advancing, I anticipated I would be long in my grave and you well into your dotage before one of you altered the status quo.”  
  
They headed outside and Bruce tucked his scarf in more snugly at the blast of wintery air. “It hasn’t been that bad.”  
  
Alfred’s only reply was a raised eyebrow that contained the condensed snark of a thousand generations of Pennyworths.  
  
A snowball flying past their heads provided a welcome distraction and they both looked out across the expansive front lawn, now transformed into a field of snow. Or rather, a battlefield, in fact, the No Man’s Land between opposing snow forts littered with the shattered remains of a phalanx of stalwart snowmen. Battered old hats, tattered scarves, carrot noses and other vestiges of the advance troops were now strewn haphazardly across the once pristine snow.  
  
At the edge of the field, Bruce called out for attention. “Head’s up! I’ll be out of town tonight and I expect each of you to follow Alfred’s orders to the letter. Is that understood?”  
  
“Loud and clear,” Dick said as he popped out from the nearest fort. “Tell Clark I said—Hey!” He ducked back down as a ferocious volley of snowballs hurtled his way from the opposite fort. Several hit their target even as Damian sprang up to provide cover, driving Jason and Tim back into shelter.  
  
“Do not extend my regards to the alien, Father,” Damian informed him. He was busy restocking the fort’s supply of snowballs as Dick brushed snow out of his hair and danced around, clawing at his back. “Grayson, what are you doing?”  
  
“I’ve got snow down my back. It’s cold.”  
  
Damian rolled his eyes and continued crafting spheres of icy death, as he preferred to call to them.  
  
Bruce exchanged a look with Alfred. They both shook their heads and walked back to the car.  
  
“I know he gets his imperious sense of superiority from Ra’s--”  
  
“Yes, no doubt his grandfather is solely responsible for that,” Alfred said as he held the car door open.  
  
Bruce ignored the dry interjection. “But I never got the sense Ra’s was xenophobic,” he concluded as he got into the car and settled back in the warm, comfortable seat.  
  
Alfred got behind the wheel. “I believe Master Damian would express an aversion to cats were you intimately involved with Miss Kyle, sir. Shall we be on our way? Your window of opportunity is a narrow one.”  
  
He might have referred to the flight to Metropolis. Bruce knew he meant something else entirely. “Let’s go.” He wasn’t intimately involved with anyone just at the moment. As Alfred guided the car along the hairpin curves that led to Gotham, Bruce patted the package in his pocket and considered the answer he might get tonight that could change everything.

 

 

**-II-**

  
  
_Pluto was discovered on February 18, 1930. It takes the dwarf planet 248.09 Earth years to complete one orbit around the sun. Pluto will complete its first full orbit since its discovery on Monday, March 23, 2178._  
  
“It should be a universal rule that when your hosts bring out the mimes, it’s time to call it a night,” Superman said as he stood up from their table in the Castle Dalcimir dining hall, just as the mime troupe in question appeared. “Think I’ll turn in, guys.”  
  
Concerned, Wonder Woman touched his hand. “Are you all right, Kal?”  
  
He covered her hand with his and smiled. “Nothing a nap won’t cure.”  
  
A nap—and a long bask in the rays of a yellow sun, Batman thought as he watched Clark leave the hall, the crimson of his cape standing out starkly amidst their hosts’ more somber colors. When envoys from Ysphrix had appealed to the Justice League to embark on a diplomatic mission to oversee a transition of power, someone had neglected to mention the planet orbited a red sun—a mistake that would not be repeated if Bruce had anything to say about it. If it had been a mistake.  
  
The mission had, to date, been without incident. No assassination attempts to foil or plots for palace coups to uncover. Only a series of competitions to determine the members of the new ruling council, with the Justice League presence a guard against anyone cheating to win. Provided space pirates didn’t strike in the night, Bruce was prepared to call the mission a success.  
  
The nights on Ysphrix were long, however, and he wouldn’t be one hundred percent satisfied until they were all back on Earth and Clark was at full power once more.  
  
“Hey! You’re leaving?” The Flash protested as Bruce started to get up from their table. “But the party’s just getting started!”  
  
“I want to review the council’s bylaws to make sure every technicality’s been covered,” Bruce said. He had armed himself with that information their first day here but Wally didn’t need to know that.  
  
“And people say you don’t know how to have fun.” Wally flashed Diana and Hawkgirl his brightest smile then. “Guess that means you lovely ladies have me _alllll_ to yourselves. Be gentle.” If he even noticed them rolling their eyes he in no way took this for a deterrent as he fake swooned down on his chair.  
  
“Is it Kal?” Diana asked. She glanced around the ornate dining hall that, to Bruce’s eyes, looked like _Lord of the Rings_ fused with steampunk gothic. “Perhaps I should come with you.”  
  
“I’ve got it. He’s just not used to feeling mortal.”  
  
Diana favored him with a hard stare and he thought her fingers twitched towards her lasso for a split second. “One thing I will never understand about Man’s World is why the truth of how one feels is something that must be kept secret.”  
  
“That being apropos of nothing,” Wally chimed in with a puzzled look at Diana, “here’s another non sequitur for you.” He indicated another table where several Ysphrix nobels still feasted. “Does anyone else want to know why Lady Alsinar over there keeps giving us the stink eye?”  
  
“I’ve wondered,” Shayera said.  
  
“She backed the wrong horse in the competitions,” Bruce said, also aware of the sour look the lady had worn throughout these final ceremonies.  
  
“Maybe.” Wally planted his elbows on the table and leaned in close. “But I keep thinking about who knows about the big guy’s vulnerabilities—and who would want to exploit them.”  
  
“Nothing’s happened,” Diana pointed out. “He hasn’t been placed in any kind of high-risk situation.”  
  
“He hadn’t powered all the way down when we first got here,” Wally said. He looked at Bruce. “Am I right, that takes awhile?”  
  
Bruce replied with a tiny shrug, hardly more than a faint twitch of a shoulder. “I’ve ruled out Luthor and Brainiac.”  
  
“Oh good.” Shayera hefted her mace as she looked around the hall. “That just leaves Darkseid.”  
  
“Or,” Wally drew the word out, “we’re just being paranoid.”  
  
“It isn’t paranoia if a god wants you dead,” Diana said with the voice of someone who would know. She gave Bruce another direct look. “We shouldn’t let Kal out of our sight.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning to.” On his feet, Bruce nodded to them, looked across as Lady Alsinar and her cohorts, and took his leave. If his cape didn’t contrast as dramatically with the castle’s ambience, he trusted his exit was no less dramatic.  
  


~*~

  
For just a moment, as he hurried across the courtyard to reach their quarters, Bruce second guessed his refusal of one of the fur-lined cloaks the locals sported. According to their hosts, it was barely mid-autumn. If that were true, Bruce didn’t think he would care to visit this mountain fortress at the height of winter.  
  
The clear, cold sky overhead troubled him for other reasons, however, and he spared it only a brief glance as he ran across the icy cobblestones. That alien sky—alien to him—with too many moons and constellations he couldn’t name, where the sun he knew was nothing but a distant point of light, was more disconcerting than he cared to admit. If missions like this were going to be a regular part of the JLA mission he would grow accustomed to it, but it might take awhile.  
  
The night patrol approached and passed, the Captain of the Guard acknowledging him with a brief inclination of her head. He replied in kind and watched them march on, a sure a sign as any that all was well. He ducked inside and climbed the steps of the turret that housed their quarters, with the sense that he might be perilously close to optimism. He wasn’t sure he liked the feeling.  
  


~*~

  
“Bruce? Come to bed.”  
  
He gave a start and sat up straight on the chair he had pulled close to the fire. Cold, stiff muscles protested and a groan slipped out before he could stop it. The blanket he had dragged off his bed had fallen to the floor and he tugged it up again. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Yes, I know. You don’t need sleep, you never rest, and you only sit down to change your shoes.”  
  
Bruce exhaled an annoyed breath that didn’t quite manifest as vapor in the chilly air but it was a close thing. He eyed his bed, his cowl and belt tossed across it, and shook his head. “An arctic ice floe would be more comfortable.”  
  
“Get in with me then,” Clark said and lifted his blankets. “It’s not like we’ve never shared a bed.”  
  
“This isn’t the _Love Boat_ , Clark.” He didn’t know why those were the first words that popped into his head, let alone why he had been compelled to actually speak them. That they had been poorly chosen was evident in the way Clark visibly perked up.  
  
“And that cruise was?” Clark said as he sat up. The covers slipped from his shoulders to his lap and revealed a perfectly sculpted, naked chest.  
  
Bruce trusted his expression was the very epitome of blasé. “That was a mix-up that we agreed to never speak of.”  
  
Noble brow furrowed, Clark said, “I don’t remember agreeing to that. Anyway, it reminded me of those old screwball comedies. Although I don’t think there was ever one where Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn had to deal with gangster ventriloquist dummies and bombs.”  
  
“ _Bringing Up Baby_ came close,” Bruce said. He instantly resolved to include a roll of duct tape in his utility belt from this point onward. That way he could slap a strip of tape over his mouth whenever he felt the urge coming on to say things like that out loud. He wouldn’t need to carry it all of the time, just when Clark was around.  
  
“I didn’t know you watched those.”  
  
“Alfred likes them. You should cover up, you’ll catch a chill.”  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a chill.”  
  
“It’s not an experience you will look back on with fondness.” Although he was probably wrong about that. Clark seemed to regard every ‘normal human’ experience as some sort of invaluable treasure, even the painful ones.  
  
Clark looked at _him_ fondly, disconcertingly so. “Bruce, come on, get in here. I’m cold, you’re cold. Or do you want to wait for hypothermia to set in?”  
  
He made it sound so reasonable. And Bruce couldn’t deny the thought had skittered across his mind on previous nights as he lay shivering in his own bed. “You hog the coves,” he reminded him as he stood up.  
  
“Not this time. Scout’s honor.” Clark held his hand up in the official salute. “You’re going to take your boots off, right?”  
  
Sheer contrariness tempted him to say no, and to insist upon it, in fact. A picture of Alfred rose in his mind, however, and imagination easily supplied the look of reproof that would be aimed his way. He sat down on the edge of the bed to tug at one boot. “I don’t habitually wear them to bed, if you must know.”  
  
“I had wondered. Do you need some help? You should really take off everything.”  
  
“No, stay where you are.” Bruce supposed he had spoken more sharply than was entirely warranted. It was just that, when he looked at Clark over there, muscular arms clasped around upraised knees and the naked length of his back on full display, he started to think there might be a challenge and invitation in those deep blue eyes.  
  
Another image formed in his mind, of Clark, half-naked as he knelt before Bruce to remove the boots, broad hands straying to a thigh, and sensually massaging along a calf… And he had to stop and draw in some deep, shuddery breaths _and think of anything else_ —that crossbow Damian wanted, guaranteed to stop a zombie in its track; those fingerprints he and Jim Gordon had collected at a crime scene that had led to a trained koala… Yes, that did it. He released a pent up breath and carried on with removing boots.  
  
If he needed proof this was a bad idea, he wouldn’t find anything more damning than that.  
  
About to explain that he would sleep in his own bed after all, even if his feet already felt numb against the icy floor, he hesitated as he looked at Clark again. There was nothing provocative in his expression or posture now, only concern and curiosity, and Bruce had to wonder if he had simply projected his own secret desires onto his friend. That that made this any better, of course, but he could control it. He had been controlling it for quite a long time, after all. One more night couldn’t make a difference.  
  
Couldn’t hurt to cross his fingers, though, he decided as he tugged off his shirt and tossed it across to the other bed. He shoved his legs under the covers and briskly wriggled out the rest of the suit and threw it after the rest. “Gotham was in the middle of the worst heat wave in ten years when I left.”  
  
“Metropolis, too. Sounds good now, doesn’t it?”  
  
“I won’t complain when we get back.” He lay back, near the edge of the bed, shivered, and pulled the covers up to his chin.  
  
“Your teeth are chattering.”  
  
He turned on his side, facing out into the room, and hunched under the blankets.  
  
“Bruce.” One of those big, broad hands came to rest on his back and he tensed up under the touch. Would there be some request to snuggle up together for shared body heat? He was so focused on ways to counter any argument Clark presented for this suggestion that he missed what Clark actually said next. “What?”  
  
“I can’t hear your heartbeat.”  
  
Well…he didn’t seem to have anything ready for that. A poignant note in Clark’s voice, as if this hurt him, proved especially disconcerting. “I’m right here.”  
  
“I know. It…” He heaved a deep sigh then, the kind that usually felt like a short gust of wind and scattered papers and maps that someone had set out on a table. This one didn’t even ruffle Bruce’s hair. “I miss it, being able to listen and know you’re all right. It probably sounds creepy--”  
  
Bruce interrupted him. “It doesn’t sound creepy. It’s no different from the way I check in on the boys and Alfred before turning in for the night. That’s not creepy.” Although now that he had actually confessed it out loud for the first time he wasn’t entirely sure about that.  
  
He shifted to look at Clark and found himself the object of fond scrutiny once more. “What?”  
  
“You do that?”  
  
Unable to put up any armor, Bruce had to settle for a grumpy dismissal. “Just once in awhile. If I’ve picked up a credible threat on the street.”  
  
“Umm hmm. Yeah, I can see how that would be a cause for concern, what with only the five levels of security you have at the Manor.”  
  
“Seven.”  
  
Clark gave him an interested look.  
  
“I added a few things after Hawkgirl just strolled in, easy as you please.”  
  
“I thought that spooked you.”  
  
He didn’t have to feign grumpiness now. “I was not spooked. I was alerted to vulnerabilities in the system.”  
  
Clark didn’t even bother to hide the laughter in his eyes as he nodded with fake solemnity. “Yes, of course that’s all it was.” The merriment was short-lived, however, and Clark settled back against his pillow with another soft sigh. “It was terrifying the first time I heard the whole world. Like this,” he gestured to illustrate, “this _whoosh!_ of sound that swept over me, pounding me. It was one of the hardest powers to master, to learn how to filter things out and focus.” He gave Bruce a shy look then and confessed, “It’s one of my favorites now. To just…close my eyes and _listen_.” His eyes drifted shut and he bit his lips in concentration. “Everything’s too quiet now.”  
  
“Or maybe just quiet enough?”  
  
One eye cracked open, Clark looked a question at him. “Quiet enough?”  
  
“Listen.” Unconsciously, Bruce scooted closer. He looked over at the window, icy sleet spattering against the panes of glass. “Can you hear the sleet as it hits the window?”  
  
Eyes closed again and a look of intense concentration on his face, Clark listened and slowly nodded. “Yes, yes I can.”  
  
“And the fire? Do you hear the crackle and pop as the wood burns?”  
  
“Yes.” Clark breathed the word out and appeared content to simply absorb these hushed, unobtrusive sounds for awhile. At last he opened his eyes and turned to face Bruce again. “I’d forgotten to listen to the small things. Thank you.”  
  
Bruce nodded, tempted to dismiss it as no big deal. He couldn’t, though, not when it was clear that Clark believed otherwise. “What’s your favorite sound?” he asked as he lay back against the pillows.  
  
Clark shot him a pensive glance, as if this was a weighty matter to consider. “Promise you won’t laugh.”  
  
“I won’t laugh.”  
  
“Or think it’s weird?”  
  
He scootched up against the pillows, curiosity piqued. “Clark, you’re a demi-god extraterrestrial from Kansas. What could be weirder than that?”  
  
Clark’s look turned dubious but he said, “In the spring, when everything’s waking up after winter, I like to listen to it.”  
  
Bruce met his dubious look and raised it by an eyebrow. “You listen to it?”  
  
“See? I knew you’d think it was weird.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s weird, just…” He trailed off under Clark’s steady look. “Okay, maybe a little weird. What do you hear?”  
  
“Everything; roots and seeds and earthworms moving through the soil.”  
  
And it was the way he said it, with a note of such wonder in his voice that drew a soft laugh from Bruce. “I’m not laughing at you,” he said as Clark fixed him with a suspicious look. “It’s just…” He shook his head. “No one else would even think to listen to that. No one else would love even an earthworm.”  
  
“They should; they play a crucial role in soil cultivation.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s true.” Bruce shook his head again, still smiling. “Is that it, then? Your favorite sound is listening to earthworms?”  
  
“I didn’t say _they_ were my favorite sound. I--” Clark narrowed his eyes at him. “Rain, okay? I like to lay in bed on a rainy morning and just listen to it patter against the windows. What about you? What’s your favorite sound?”  
  
He would have liked to say the sound of his parents’ voices but he couldn’t be sure he really remembered that. Before he could wander too far down that path, he said, “Dick’s laughter when he was little and started to feel at home at the Manor. The place had been quiet for so long, like a mausoleum, but then all of a sudden there was this laughter ringing out and filling the air, like the first birdsong of spring.”  
  
“Sounds about right for a Robin.”  
  
Bruce nodded and stretched out again. “Why are we talking about worms and robins?”  
  
“I said I couldn’t hear your heartbeat.”  
  
Oh. Right. “You could--” He caught himself in time, without duct tape, but it was close. If Clark would only overlook it—  
  
Clark gave him an inquisitive look. “I could what? Bruce?”  
  
This was nuts. There was no reason to attach erotic significance to any of this. “You could listen to it, if you wanted.”  
  
“To your heartbeat?”  
  
“That’s what we’re talking about.” It was no big deal. Clark would be satisfied and settle down and this would become one more incident never to be spoken of. There were getting to be a lot of those.  
  
If Bruce didn’t know better, he would have sworn the blue of Clark’s eyes had intensified; grown deeper and brighter as he weighed the offer and his response. Maybe he didn’t know better, Bruce thought as he watched the tip of Clark’s tongue dart out to wet his lips. It felt as if the entire atmosphere of the room had transformed in seconds, becoming heavier and slower. Even the pervasive cold had lost its edge and become less harsh in the seconds it took Clark to edge closer to him.  
  
Thinking to regain control of things and dispel the strange vibrations, Bruce grasped Clark’s hand and brought it to his chest. “See? Normal resting heart rate.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Clark murmured. “Feels a little rapid.” His eyes began to smolder as he touched Bruce, fingers splayed out across his chest. “And you said I could listen.”  
  
Bruce’s mouth felt dry as he considered this all may have been a huge miscalculation. Voice hoarse, he said, “I did.”  
  
Clark nodded but didn’t immediately move. For the moment he appeared content to look, to dwell on every detail. Bruce wanted to twist away, to pull the covers up. There was nothing to see, nothing like Clark’s perfection—although the look in Clark’s eyes did seem to dispute that. Lit with a strange mix of admiration and sorrow, that gaze took in every scar and bruise, old wounds and some still healing. Bruce held himself still and bore up under the thoughtful examination with surprising equanimity. Or, he did until the gentle graze of fingertips along those marks made him feel naked in a way that had nothing to do with clothes.  
  
The touch, intimate as a kiss, stilled at the tremor that jolted through Bruce, and Clark asked, “Are you okay?”  
  
“Yes, I…” He released a pent up breath, relaxed with it, and met Clark’s eyes. “You surprised me,” he said and fought down the urge to bolt for the door at the warmth and concern in Clark’s eyes. “You always surprise me.”  
  
Clark’s smile was rueful as he said, “Most people would say that I am nothing if _not_ predictable.”  
  
They would, and they would be wrong. “They don’t know you like I do.” And if he’d thought those eyes had smoldered before, they were downright thermonuclear now. “Clark--”  
  
“So if you know me so well,” something crept into Clark’s voice that was stern and somber, “why didn’t you duck?”  
  
Oh, they were back here again, Bruce realized as Clark zeroed in one particular scar of recent vintage. This one had been acquired when Two-Face and his gang crashed a Gotham City gala and started spraying bullets. Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, in an unexpected act of heroism, was shot while protecting _Daily Planet_ report Clark Kent. “I didn’t plan on getting shot. Harvey had his gun aimed straight at you. There was no other way to protect your secret identity.” He thought they had ironed this all out by now.  
  
“I didn’t ask you to protect it at risk to yourself.”  
  
Bruce narrowed his eyes at him. “You didn’t ask me to save your ass when Toyman and Parasite doubled up and had you cornered, either. I don’t recall any complaints then.”  
  
Clark looked daggers right back for a split second, the kind of expression that was sometimes accompanied by twin blasts of heat vision. In this instance, Clark only huffed exasperation and said, “Next time just yell. I can handle it from there.”  
  
“Noted.” He wanted to ask Clark to hurry up and listen to his heartbeat. He wasn’t sure how to phrase it so it came out as impatience to have this over with.  
  
Propped on an elbow, his free hand resting against Bruce’s sternum light as a feather, Clark seemed content to take his time with the proceedings. “You’re worried about our hosts. Them not mentioning the red sun and all?”  
  
Bruce quirked a suspicious eyebrow. “I thought your super hearing was on the fritz.”  
  
“I don’t need super hearing to know when you’re apprehensive.”  
  
Bruce glanced away, over at the window where sleet had turned full on to snow. That he could claim a unique understanding of Clark was one thing; that Clark should demonstrate a similar knowledge of him was unsettling. He put that aside for the moment and looked back at Clark. “You’re not concerned?”  
  
Clark’s look was sanguine. “It is what is—and I’ve got great backup if anything does happen.”  
  
“So speaks the eternal optimist,” Bruce grumbled.  
  
“Thus gripes the perpetual skeptic,” Clark returned.  
  
“One of has to be. Anyway,” he looked over at the window again and pushed down concerns of getting snowed in here, “we’ll be out of here tomorrow. We should get some sleep.”  
  
That look had crept back into Clark’s eyes while Bruce wasn’t paying attention, the warm and intimate, inviting one that was loaded with so much danger. “But I haven’t listened to your heartbeat.” His voice was pitched to match the look, with a rough note that shivered through Bruce. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”  
  
Mouth dry once more, he said, “I haven’t changed my mind.” This was absurd: he could escape from countless deathtraps laid by The Joker, Riddler, and Poison Ivy, but he could see no way out of this, graceful or otherwise. Bravado would have to do. “Knock yourself out.”  
  
Clark’s powers may have waned but Bruce reminded himself it was always important to remember that, for all his corn fed Kansas background, this man _was_ an alien. Who knew what latent Kryptonian anomalies lurked under those boggling powers? Maybe Kryptonians were walking generators of erotic pheromones in their natural state.  
  
He had barely made any progress on how one might test for that when Clark’s cheek brushed against his skin. “Cla--”  
  
“Shh. I’m listening.” He shifted position just a bit, ear still pressed to Bruce’s chest, and it took every ounce of willpower Bruce possessed to remain immobile as silken hair caressed his skin. His hands dug into the bed sheets against the terrible temptation to plunge his hands into those curls and feel them slip between his fingers.  
  
“Are you sure you’re okay? Your heart’s beating pretty fast.”  
  
Would sarcasm help, or only reveal more than he wanted to? He settled for, “It’s probably the alien atmosphere.” That might even be partially true.  
  
“You don’t like it do you, being on another world?”  
  
“Let’s just say it was never a dream of mine to be an astronaut when I grew up.”  
  
“Yeah?” Clark moved again so he could look at Bruce. “It was one of mine,” he said with a smile that took a swift rueful turn. “At least until I found out I came from outer space. I could never figure out how to hide that from NASA.”  
  
How many hopes and dreams, Bruce wondered, had gone up in smoke with that revelation? It was easy to take Clark at face value and never look past the bright smile and cheerful optimism. Bruce had looked and been startled by the kindred spirit he had discovered. Clark’s childhood hadn’t been shattered in a blast of gunfire, no, but his struggle to hide who he was, never quite able to fit in anywhere, was a shadow across what could look like an idyllic life in Smallville. Bruce didn’t like to think how things might have gone if someone other than the Kents had found Kal-El of Krypton.  
  
“Is it everything you imagined now, traveling to other worlds, walking under an alien sky?” He tried to concentrate on Clark’s contemplative expression as he mulled the question over—but that damn curl was a terrible distraction as it practically invited him to brush it out of Clark’s eyes.  
  
Oblivious to that turmoil, Clark said, “Pretty much, although it’s a little less _Star Trek_ than I used to imagine.”  
  
“I think it’s plenty _Star Trek_.”  
  
“We don’t have tricorders, though,” Clark said with a pout Bruce refused to acknowledge.  
  
“We have the best Wayne Tech equipment available.”  
  
“Except tricorders.”  
  
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll have Lucius Fox make that a top priority when we get back.” He might really do it, too, if it meant Clark’s eyes would light up like that again when Bruce handed him the contraption. “Happy now?”  
  
“Not unhappy.” Clark sighed, a warm puff of breath against Bruce’s skin, and sat up. “I’m convinced you’re alive and well,” he said and touched Bruce’s chest again. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome. It’s second nature to you, isn’t it?” Bruce asked, thoughtful as he considered that careful touch.  
  
Clark looked a question at him, shook his head. “I’m not sure--”  
  
“The way you’re so conscious of your strength, how one careless moment could inflict terrible damage.”  
A pensive look clouded the blue of Clark’s eyes and he bit his lip as he nodded. “I have to be,” he said and started to move his hand. “That was one of the earliest things I learned.”  
  
Bruce caught hold of the hand, covered it with his own and pressed down. “It’s safe now,” he said, gaze never leaving Clark’s face. “You could hold something as tight as you’ve ever wanted.”  
  
It was so quiet in the room. Only the crackle of the flames was audible as the moment stretched on and he watched temptation war with resolve across Clark’s face. Had he ever done that, held a lover tight in his arms? Could he? Bruce suspected he had his answer in the way temptation flared bright for an instant before Clark damped it back down.  
  
“I can’t, Bruce, it…” Clark sighed, regret in his eyes. “My powers will come back, everything will go back the way it was, and all I’ll have is a memory of one brief taste of what it felt like.” He glanced away but not before Bruce caught a flash of deep yearning in his face. “I think that might be worse than never knowing.”  
  
He didn’t only mean the return of his powers, though. “That could be true,” Bruce said and chose his words with care. He moved his hand, lit slide up along Clark’s forearm. Fine, dark hairs tickled his palm and he wasn’t sure which one of them trembled. “There’s something to be said for seizing the moment.”  
  
Clark met his eyes. “Never thought you would recommend that anyone rush recklessly ahead.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything about rushing.” Unable to hold out against the enticement of him, Bruce touched Clark’s face and let his fingers slip into the tousled, silken curls. He had expected it to hurt if he ever succumbed to this but found any pings of alarm were far too insignificant to take note of. He tugged and brought Clark’s head to his chest once more. “I think you should check my heart again. I might have a flutter.”  
  
“Now you mention it,” Clark obliged and pressed his ear to Bruce’s heart, “there might be a slight irregularity.” He turned his head so that his mouth, lips parted, dragged along Bruce’s skin. His heartbeat did spike then and he couldn’t immediately produce an answer as Clark pushed up to look at him and ask, “What should we do about that?”  
  
“Ah…” He licked his lips, wondered how he had ever earned a reputation as playboy, and said, “Maybe…CPR?”  
  
Mischief in his eyes, Clark said, “Chest compressions?”  
  
Bruce could have sworn he was meant to be the suave one here. Hell if he could locate any savoir-fare  
right now. “I was thinking more…mouth-to-mouth.”  
  
Eyes wide, as if hadn’t really expected that, Clark drew back. “Bruce--”  
  
“Clark.” There was nothing urbane or brash in the way Bruce touched Clark’s face again. This was far too important for that, he realized as he ran fingertips across Clark’s lips. “Come here,” he murmured, fingers tangled in Clark’s hair.  
  
A look passed across Clark’s face then that Bruce had seen many times. Usually it appeared when they faced impossible odds that, against all probability began to turn in their favor, and Clark would square his shoulders and stand even taller, with a glint in his eyes that said he had this, he knew he could win.  
  
“Bruce, I have waited--”  
  
“I know. Believe me, Clark,” he pushed up to meet him, “I know.”  
  
Clark reached for him, arms still powerful as they gathered him close, and a thrill jolted through Bruce when he felt Clark dare to hold him tight.  
  
“I won’t break, I won’t break,” he whispered as they angled their heads toward each other, scarcely a millimeter of space between them now—  
  
Two sharp, distinct thumps sounded against the door and Diana’s voice called out. “Bruce! Kal! There’s trouble!”  
  
Bruce stared into Clark’s eyes and at least had the consolation of knowing his reaction was mirrored there. “Fuck.”  
  
Clark concurred. He sighed and touched his forehead to Bruce’s.  
  
Another thump, this one impatient. “Kal! Bruce!”  
  
“I really hate her right now.”  
  
“No you don’t,” Clark said and smoothed a hand along the back of Bruce’s head. “We should probably do something before she breaks the door down,” he added as his hand rested against the nape of Bruce’s neck.  
  
From the sound of things, that event was in progress. He nodded and shut his eyes for a second, the better to absorb the sensation as Clark deepened the neck massage. Then he sighed sat back on his heels. “What kind of trouble?” he called out as they both climbed out of bed and reached for clothes, shivering in the cold.  
  
“Wally thinks it’s space pirates!”  
  
“It better goddamn be,” Bruce declared as he caught the cowl Clark tossed him…  
  


~*~

  
“We’ll be landing at Metropolis International in ten minutes, Mr. Wayne,” a disembodied voice announced over the speaker.  
  
Bruce closed the report J’onn had sent him, an update on the progress Lady Alsinar--a crucial, not a foe, as it had turned out--was making with the Ysphrixan council. He shut the laptop and tucked it back in its case, and fastened his seatbelt as the jet began its descent.  
  
He looked out the window at the city of tomorrow, as its soaring skyscrapers caught the last rays of the sun. He was never entirely comfortable here. Like Pluto, he spent too much in the cold, dark, outer reaches. Even Pluto eventually got to circle the sun, though, and a strange sensation that might be excitement began to curl tight in his belly.  
  
The difference was Pluto would be exiled back into darkness after its rendezvous with the sun. Bruce dared to entertain higher hopes for himself.  
  


 

 

**III**

  
  
_All I want for Christmas is you…  
\--Mariah Carey_  
  
Some business deals were more satisfying than others. Bruce especially relished the Wayne Enterprises eleventh hour acquisition of _The Daily Planet_. Any day that one of Lex Luthor’s grandiose schemes did a spectacular nosedive was a good one.  
  
If that meant Bruce had to put in an appearance at the _Planet’s_ Christmas party that was an obligation he found easy to fulfill—at least until Cat Grant expressed a stone cold sober determination to get him under the mistletoe.  
  
“Come on, Brucie,” she cooed. Jewel-encrusted bracelets clanked as she linked her arms around his neck and stretched up on her toes. “Be a prince and make a girl’s dreams come true,” she said and directed his attention to the sprig of mistletoe overhead, the white berries glimmering.  
  
He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye—raven haired, lavender eyed, dressed to the nines, and moving with purpose—and began to extricate himself from Cat’s octopus-like grasp. “Ms. Grant, you flatter me, but don’t you know what happens when you kiss a prince?”  
  
“You turn into a frog?” Lois Lane had arrived.  
  
“Huh.” Cat looked from one to the other with the appearance of someone adding things up to all the wrong conclusions. “That reminds me of this joke about Kermit and Miss Piggy--”  
  
“Which you can tell to Steve Lombard,” Lois said with a tilt of her head to where the sports writer was rockin’ around the Christmas tree with other _Planet_ staff.  
  
Cat held up her hands, bracelets jangling again. “Never let it be said Cat Grant can’t take a hint,” she said and stalked off with no discernible huff.  
  
“Usually you have to order them from Acme and drop them on her head, though. Come on.” Lois took Bruce by the arm and steered him away from the booze and noise. “We don’t want to watch that,” she said as Cat reached Lombard and stretched up to whisper in his ear.  
  
Bruce had no objections and let her lead him over to a window that she cracked open a couple of inches. Cold, sharp air rushed in, with a few fragile snowflakes wafting in as well. “That’s better.” Lois breathed in the crisp air with relish. “It’s no wonder Smallville had to go up to the roof for awhile.”  
  
“Oh, is that where he is?” Bruce asked, idly, as if it couldn’t possibly matter.  
  
“Umm.” Lois glanced out the window, scanned the sky. Then, seemingly apropos of nothing as Wally might say, she said, “There was a five alarm fire in Suicide Slum about fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
Bruce, discerning the hidden context, did the math now and nodded. “That’s terrible, especially at the holidays. Good thing you have Superman.”  
  
“It is.” Lois took another deep breath of the wintry air before she stepped back to lower it against the snowflakes that wanted to drift inside. “I’m going to miss this.”  
  
Bruce gave her an interested look. “You’re leaving?”  
  
“Just for a few weeks. Perry’s sending me to Egypt to cover Carter Hall’s new dig.”  
  
“The lost tomb of Nefrim-Ka.” Bruce nodded. “I’ve read about it, sounds interesting.” Dangerous, too, if even a fraction of the lore about it was true. He bit his tongue against warning Lois to stay safe, though. Perilous circumstances, she would point out, were part of her job description. And if she had an uncanny knack for finding them, experience had taught him, and Clark, that she was more than resourceful at getting herself out of those hazardous situations. She had been known to save a hero or two along the way, after all.  
  
“I have an interview lined up with Queen Bee, too,” Lois said.  
  
“I’ll look forward to reading that.”  
  
She gave him a fresh look of appraisal and thinned out her lips as if she didn’t want to smile. “Reading up on Egyptology and following current events, Mr. Wayne? What’s brought this on? Off the record.”  
  
He lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “It seemed like a good time to expand my horizons.”  
  
Lois gave him a look of intrigued approval now. “So no more late night debauchery with starlets and supermodels?”  
  
“That’s the idea.”  
  
“Small steps?”  
  
“Bigger all the time.”  
  
Eyes narrowed, she turned all of that over and finally nodded to herself, approving whatever conclusion she had reached. “I was going to say Clark would have to get in trouble without me but something tells me you’ve got that covered. Well,” brisk now, she checked her watch, “like I said, Smallville’s probably up on the roof—and I have a plane to catch. See you when I get back.”  
  
“You will.” He caught her arm as she started to breeze on past him. “And, Lois, thank you.”  
  
Disconcerted now, a rare enough occurrence to stop the presses, she asked, “For getting Cat off you?”  
  
“For being a good friend to Clark.”  
  
Uncomfortable, as if she needed a snappy comeback and couldn’t find one, Lois said, “He makes it easy.”  
  
“Not everyone shares that opinion.”  
  
On firmer ground now, and with a glint of fire in her eyes, Lois said, “Some people also have their heads shoved so far up their--”  
  
“Lois!” Perry White’s bellow cut across the music and laughter. “You and Olsen have a plane to catch. Hop to it.”  
  
“We’re hopping, Chief,” Jimmy muttered as he worked his way through the crowd to Lois and Bruce. “We are hopping. Hey, Mr. Wayne!”  
  
“Jimmy.” Bruce nodded at him. “That was a good piece you did on Superman and the Children’s Hospital.”  
  
Jimmy’s face lit up. “Thanks, Mr. Wayne. That kind of thing just about writes itself with the big guy around.”  
  
“I’ll bet. Well, I’ll let you two go,” Bruce said as he caught sight of Perry about to head their way. “Have a safe trip.”  
  
“Thanks, Mr. Wayne. You ready to go, Lois?”  
  
She waved an arm before him. “Lead on, Jimmy.”  
  
Bruce watched them go. There had been a time when he’d thought Clark and Lois would be the romance of the century, maybe the millennium, their chemistry was that off the charts. Luckily for him, things had never quite clicked that way or the mission he embarked on today would have been doomed from the start.  
  
He looked over at the party still going strong, glanced away as Cat Grant and Steve Lombard waved him over, and headed down the hallway for the door that led up to the roof.  
  


~*~

  
As he stepped out on the roof and felt the first icy blast of air, Bruce hugged his overcoat around him. Floodlights illuminated the iconic globe and the paper’s helipad but only a pallid radiance spilled over onto this patch of rooftop. That suited him. There was light enough to spot the figure that waited by the edge of the roof.  
  
He didn’t step forward immediately. There were still matters to weigh and ponder and he found that, even though he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his head, the reality that it was finally here needed some time to be fully processed.  
  
He would walk over there, through a half inch accumulation of snow. He would put a hand against that broad, strong back and feel Clark tense with surprise for an instant before he relaxed into the touch. And then Bruce would lean in close, lips almost against Clark’s ear, and he would whisper… Well, that was where everything began to fall apart.  
  
“I know you’re there.”  
  
So much for stealth. Plan postponed, not abandoned, Bruce went over to join him in looking out over the city. Through the filter of snow, and lit up for the holidays, Metropolis looked like someone had thrown handfuls of fairy dust all across the city. “Gotham could never pull this off.”  
  
“Maybe not,” Clark said, a fond note in his voice. “There’s something to be said for all of that neo-gothic splendor, though. Christmas feels like a Dickens novel there.”  
  
Bruce hadn’t thought of it like that, and wasn’t entirely sure he agreed. He didn’t want to talk about architecture or Dickens, however. “How’s the fire?” he asked as he picked up a whiff of smoke off Clark.  
  
“It’s out, everyone survived—even Omar.”  
  
Bruce bit. “Omar?”  
  
“A teddy bear. He got singed but nothing worse.”  
  
And of course Clark had gone back into the burning building expressly to retrieve Omar when he had already gotten everyone out safely, all because the boy or girl the bear belonged had asked him to while bravely trying not to cry. Bruce wasn’t sure he’d do that. More likely he would give the child money to buy a new bear. That, not a lack of powers, was why he’d never be Superman.  
  
His announcement would sound frivolous after all that, still, he couldn’t progress to Phase 2 until Phase 1 had been dealt with. “I bought a yacht.”  
  
Clark turned to look at him, snowflakes landing on his hair. “Okay.”  
  
“She has a beam of thirty-six feet and eight inches. A cruise speed of fourteen point five knots but can get up to fifteen point two knots. Seven cabins comfortably accommodate up to twelve people—and there’s a crew of fifteen. Amenities include two twenty-two foot Nautica Express custom tenders, two Seadoo RTX three man jet skies, kayaks, water skis,” he was almost out of breath and Clark just looked more puzzled with every passing second, “as well as snorkeling gear, SatCom, and basically any creature comfort you could want. Fine dining is a given.”  
  
Clark said, “Okay,” again and tilted his head with the kind of look on his face that he’d wear if Krypto had just recited Einstein’s _Theory of General Relativity_. “That’s…great?”  
  
Bruce reached into his pocket and brought out the box. Clark raised a curious eyebrow as he saw it but otherwise kept whatever he was thinking to himself. “I know you’re on your own for the holidays this year since your parents won that cruise to Cabo San Lucas.”  
  
“How do you—Never mind. And so you were inspired to buy a yacht?”  
  
“Yes.” He handed Clark the package then. “Open that.”  
  
Clark held it gingerly, plainly tempted to employ his x-ray vision. “What is it?”  
  
“Self-explanatory, for one thing.”  
  
Unconvinced of that, Clark heaved a deep breath and removed the ribbon first and then proceeded to peel the wrapping paper open with a slow and meticulous touch that made Bruce want to grab it back and rip it open. He quelled his impatience and waited, intent on Clark’s face as the prize was revealed at last, nestled in its box.  
  
Clark pried the object loose and held it up for a closer examination, turning it this way and that, and finally looked a question at Bruce.  
  
Now Bruce did take it from him, holding it up so light glinted off the silver. “It’s a luggage tag. Shaped like a ship. With your name on it.”  
  
“Well I can see that,” Clark said with the air of someone still very much in the dark. He gave Bruce a direct look, open as a Kansas prairie. “What else is it?”  
  
Time for the big guns then, Bruce realized, and stepped closer. “I had this all worked out in my head. I would find you and come up behind you--”  
  
Interest fully engaged now, Clark asked, “What was I doing, when you had it worked out?”  
  
There was still an inch or two between them. Bruce closed that gap. “You were usually at your desk, so intent on a story that you didn’t notice me until I touched your back and leaned close to whisper in your ear.”  
  
Clark blinked snow out of his eyes, reached over to brush at Bruce’s hair. “What did you whisper?”  
  
Bruce grimaced and looked away. “It wasn’t anything, not really.”  
  
Touch careful but firm, Clark turned Bruce back to face him. “Tell me anyway.”  
  
“It was…a quote. It was,” he cleared his throat, “just a way to tell you the difference you’ve made in my life.” Since it was clear that he wasn’t going to escape this—and most astonishing of all, that he really didn’t want to—Bruce cleared his throat again and said, “’I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.’” There, all of his cards were on the table. The next move was Clark’s.  
  
“Then I guess,” Clark’s arms slid around him and one hand slid up along his back to cup the back of his neck, “I’ll have to convince you that you deserve all of that happiness.”  
  
“Might take awhile.”  
  
“I like long-term projects.” Clark pressed Bruce’s head closer, nuzzled his temple.  
  
If anyone interrupted them this time… But no one did. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Clark’s lips brushed against his cheek, his forehead, and dipped down to kiss his mouth even as Bruce moved to meet him.  
  
“So, will there be anyone else on this cruise?” Clark asked as they finally parted, just enough to draw a breath. Bruce could almost believe Clark really needed to.  
  
“It is meant to be a family getaway but as I said, the ship has a wide range of distractions. A person might go hours without seeing anyone else.”  
  
“Umm hmm. And there are how many rooms again?”  
  
“Cabins. Seven of them. Master stateroom, more staterooms—you can have your pick.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Clark said, thoughtful. “We might have to share a room again.”  
  
“You know what?” Bruce dragged him close again. “I have the strangest feeling you could be right…”  
  


~the end~

  
  
Notes: The title comes from a song by The Doors/Jim Morrison:  
  
 _Wintertime winds blow cold the season  
Fallen in love, I'm hopin' to be  
Wind is so cold, is that the reason?  
Keeping you warm, your hands touching me  
  
Come with me dance, my dear  
Winter's so cold this year  
You are so warm  
My wintertime love to be  
  
Winter time winds blew and freezin'  
Comin' from northern storms in the sea  
Love has been lost, is that the reason?  
Trying so desperately to be free  
  
Come with me dance, my dear  
Winter's so cold this year  
And you are so warm  
My wintertime love to be  
  
La, la, la, la  
  
Come with me dance, my dear  
Winter's so cold this year  
You are so warm  
My wintertime love to be  
_  
  
===  
The line Bruce quotes at the end is from _Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen.  
  
The yacht was inspired by this: [it's good to be rich](http://www.charterworld.com/?sub=yacht-charter&charter=mycloud-1546).  
  
===  
Oh, yes, and they may be a sequel in the works, that--fingers crossed, please--might contain a teensy bit more than a kiss.


End file.
